


It's an End (It's the Beginning)

by Allise



Series: One-Shots and Drafts that didn't make it Big Time [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: dreamscape, no beta we die like men, this is a dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 10:14:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23349742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allise/pseuds/Allise
Summary: I wrote this after having a really weird dream- the retellings of the author
Relationships: None
Series: One-Shots and Drafts that didn't make it Big Time [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679377
Kudos: 5





	It's an End (It's the Beginning)

-

It begins with a fine banquet hall, filled with glamour and the kind of things the heart would bleed with desire for. The pillars, made of shining gold, reached and stretched towards an arched, white marble ceiling. At the front, sat a large clock face, the hands and numbers unable to be read. It doesn’t move. Under the clock is a long dining table, positioned in a way much like the Final Supper. Upon it, fine golden and white china are set neatly on the white table cloth, silverware placed proportionately on the plates. The chairs are also of a white marble, lined and detailed with gold.

It is a setting befitting of a palace. For royalty.

It is beautiful beyond what a human can comprehend.

And yet. . .

All around, scattering the floor- as golden afternoon sunlight filters in through clear windows, as green and vibrant trees wave to the wind- are broken oak chairs, ripped white cloth, and other pieces of debris. It decorates what might have been a pure white carpet.

The experience is far beyond what could be written, far beyond what can be comprehended as coherent, stable,  _ sane _ . Yet- it is so that it is laid out, in such a way that it cannot be fully portrayed in the waking world.

I/She/ _ WE _ walk through the wreckage. We gaze in sorrow at the scene around us. The description of the outfit we wear escapes us, something that we couldn’t grasp the look of. It feels familiar.

People are around us, suddenly, rapidly, impossibly. They feel like family? No. Friends? Like the clothes we wear, it is indecipherable. The connection between us and them. 

A wave of sorrow. Loss. Love.

I rush out of the banquet hall. The people do not follow? I rush into another hall to the right of the table and burst through a door. The mess in here is worse. There is a dip in the middle of the floor, like a line. Something that shouldn’t be crossed- doesn’t want to be crossed.

I cross.

There is a man. Old. Frail. White haired. 

I go to him. And as I gaze upon the fallen, old man, I feel inexplicable sorrow and loss. Harsher than before. He is dying, I realize. 

We grasp each other’s hands, desperately. My hands shake. More debris appears around us.

He says something. To place a trinket, a single piece of silverware upon the table. I want to refuse. Somehow I know that in doing what he says, that he will disappear. That there won’t even be a body to bury. My eyes burn. 

He places a silver fork, finely made and intricate, into my hands-  _ but are they really my hands? _ and although it looks identical to the others on the table, there is something different, something incredibly different than the others.

I can’t look back at the old man.

Instead, I walk away and exit through the open doors. The hall leading from the room to the banquet is clear of any wreckage. It ignites something bitter in  _ us _ , something poisonous. 

Yet-

There is an unbridled sadness. It is so overpowering that we collapse at the table.

Tears flow down my face. It is hard to breathe and I scream. It is wretched and anguished. It is the cry of a wounded animal and a newborn babe. The people surround the table and I. None raise a hand to aid me. They watch. It feels like a betrayal. I cry harder. It feels as though I could drown in my tears. 

The screams don’t cease. The wretched cries seem to shake the building and fire and heat spring to life around me. There is rage amongst the anguish. Rage and fury at the unfairness of it all. I cry in sorrow, yet I scream in anger. It is consuming. It is a calamity. It is  _ terrible. _

The anger dies. The fire does not.

We barely have the energy to lift ourselves up and replace a fork with the one given to me by the old man. It is painful, the stretch of our limb, the dropping of the silver, the cracking and tearing and  _ pounding _ of our chest.

There is a crack, a pop, a whistle? Everything warps.

It’s as if nothing had disturbed the hall. There is no wreckage, no broken dishes, no overturned chairs, no ripped and soiled cloth, no shards of wood lying on the white and pristine carpet. Outside there is a gentle breeze that moves the branches of the trees.

It feels like a farewell.

We cry harder. We can barely breathe, can barely draw breath between every heave, between every wave of emotion. I know that the old man is gone, that he has left no mark in this realm/world(?). 

The clock is ticking.

We grasp at the cloth-desperate, head hanging and body weight leaning against the table. It feels like we could cry rivers, drown whole nations in our tears. 

The people do not raise a hand in comfort. They stand. They stare. They do not help.

It ends with a fine banquet hall of white marble and gold. A dining table at the end. A clock above it. The fine china remains unperturbed and unbroken. There is a figure, grasping at the table cloth in desperation as cries and screams and sobs fill the silent air. She is surrounded by people. There are no other figures other than her.

-


End file.
